<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>candles by novoaa1</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29497332">candles</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1'>novoaa1</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(not in reference to either you or wanda), Adultery, Alcohol, Dark Wanda Maximoff, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Turmoil, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Mind Reading, Minor Original Character(s), Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Spanking, Partial Mind Control, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Wanda Maximoff, Power Dynamics, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Slut Shaming, Spanking, Swearing, Telepathic Wanda Maximoff, Telepathy, Trauma Bonding, Vandalism, mental manipulation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:01:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,331</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29497332</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The moment the door swings open to reveal a bleary-eyed Wanda Maximoff dressed in tiny grey pajama shorts, an oversized Star Trek T-shirt, and nothing else, it’s like everything falls back into place. </p><p>It’s like… like you can <em>breathe</em> again.</p><p>You’re still drunk, and shivering, and more than a bit confused; but now that Wanda’s awake and here and smirking like she knows exactly what’s happening even if you don’t, you feel… better, somehow. Not nearly so lost as you were before. </p><p>Or: You’ve been feeling strange for the past month, particularly when it comes to dating. You do your best to ignore it, thinking it’ll resolve itself on its own—given time, that is.</p><p>It doesn’t. (And it's got everything to do with Wanda.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wanda Maximoff/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>127</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>candles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>read the TAGS here, kids</p><p>this is dark!wanda maximoff (requested by anon on my tumblr) and the things that happen between wanda and reader are either quite dubiously consensual or outright non-consensual</p><p>if you think that'll trigger you in any way, please do not continue. i never want to trigger anyone with this stuff, especially when it's something i'm writing FOR other people in the first place (as opposed to just writing it for myself)</p><p>n e ways</p><p>—</p><p>wanda uses a couple bulgarian terms of endearment for reader here, so below is a lil’ list in the order of which they appear:</p><p>принцеса | <em>printsesa</em> | princess [feminine term of endearment]<br/>мила | <em>mila</em> | honey [feminine term of endearment]<br/>любима | <em>lubima</em> | sweetheart [feminine term of endearment]</p><p><b>*note:</b> all of these are exactly one letter away from being precise matches to synonymous terms in russian. HOWEVER, the bulgarian alphabet and the russian alphabet are <span class="u">different</span>—granted, in fairly minor ways. for one, while <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cyrillic_alphabets">both are comprised of cyrillic lettering, russian has 33 while bulgarian only has 30</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You have no fucking clue what’d gotten into you. </p><p> </p><p>	One moment, things were fine—<em>good</em>, even. And the next… well. </p><p> </p><p>	You’ll explain. </p><p> </p><p>	It was something like 11:30 on a Saturday night, and you were drunk. </p><p> </p><p>	Well, not drunk. More like buzzed. </p><p> </p><p>	But whatever, right? Considering the week you’d had, you deserved to let loose, even if only for a night. </p><p> </p><p>	Monday night saw a very angry and decidedly unhinged soccer mom banging on your door, screeching vehemently about the ‘two-faced slut’ who ruined her marriage and demanding to be let in so that she could ‘make her sorry.’ Turns out, the older guy your roommate had been sleeping with as of late was married—not that he’d bothered to share that particular bit of information with her, obviously. </p><p> </p><p>The two of you spent the better part of the evening barricaded inside, passing a bottle of cheap wine back and forth while trying to explain to the 911 operator that you weren’t messing around, that there really was an angry soccer mom on your doorstep and you were actively fearing for your safety. </p><p> </p><p>She eventually left around 10:00pm—no thanks to the police, since the 911 operator hadn’t even bothered to give them a call. It wasn’t until the next morning when you left for work that you saw the woman’s parting gift to the pair of you: the word ‘HOMEWRECKER’ spray-painted across the front door in obnoxious red lettering. </p><p> </p><p>Bye-bye, security deposit. </p><p> </p><p>That same night, you made your roommate promise to start dating people in a similar age range—because really, the both of you were stressed enough as it was without worrying about coming in between yet another middle-aged couple’s dying marriage. </p><p> </p><p>The rest of the week wasn’t much better. </p><p> </p><p>On Thursday, your balding creep of a boss had made yet <em>another</em> blatant pass at you in the workplace, making you seriously consider (and not for the first time) the prospect of just quitting and being done with it. </p><p> </p><p>Then, at shit o’clock on a Friday morning, you awoke to an urgent phone call informing you that an ex of yours (one you were actually on semi-decent terms with) had gotten into a fairly serious car accident, and still had you marked down as her emergency contact. </p><p> </p><p>30 minutes later found you showing up at the hospital just moments after your ex’s current girlfriend had arrived, which then prompted the whole ‘you still being your ex’s emergency contact’ revelation when the current girlfriend demanded to know what you were doing there, which ended up being… well, you’ll just say it wasn’t pretty, and leave it at that. </p><p> </p><p>And your ex was going to be completely fine, anyways. She just had some minor cuts and abrasions, and would need to undergo a fairly minor (read: minimally invasive) surgery over the next couple days. </p><p> </p><p>Before leaving, you instigated a quick check-in with the doctors to ensure they had everything they needed—which then turned into you providing a list of allergies, as your ex wouldn’t likely be conscious for another couple of hours, and apparently the current girlfriend didn’t know of her sensitivities to penicillin and phenobarbital… which the current girlfriend was less than happy about, if the daggers she glared at you were any indication. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever. You were just trying to help. </p><p> </p><p>You thanked the doctors, told them to feel free to call you if anything went awry, then asked if they might tell your ex to call you when she awoke. You thought about offering some words of comfort to the current girlfriend as she sat vigil at your ex’s bedside, but the murderous glower she shot you the moment you got within ten feet of her was more than enough to make you think better of it. </p><p> </p><p>With that, you left. </p><p> </p><p>So… yeah. It’d been a shitty week. </p><p> </p><p>And now, here you were: a girls’ night out at the lively nightclub you and your roommate had scoped out just last weekend, tossing back $12 cocktails and letting the trashy EDM beat blaring over the speakers drown out the rest of your thoughts. </p><p> </p><p>You’d been feeling a little weird all week—all <em>month</em>, really. </p><p> </p><p>As far as you were concerned, this was exactly what the doctor had ordered.</p><p> </p><p> So, when a cute guy wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt that was at least a couple sizes too big yet did well to compliment his well-muscled torso came up to you and started chatting you up at the bar, you didn’t blow him off.</p><p> </p><p>The exact opposite, in fact.</p><p> </p><p>He was nice, and funny, and had a gorgeous smile that made your chest feel warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the alcohol. When he flirted with you, you flirted right back. </p><p> </p><p>You felt a little guilty for doing so, though you couldn’t exactly put a finger on why that was. Either way, you didn’t allow yourself to dwell on it for very long. </p><p> </p><p>After all, you’d been feeling hints of that for the past month, if not longer. It seemed to happen whenever you flirted with a cute guy, or went out on another Tinder date with a pretty girl, or even hugged one of your close friends. </p><p> </p><p>You’d get this painful tightening sensation in your gut, nausea roiling in your abdomen… a distant, lofty voice in your head telling you that this was wrong, that you already belonged to someone else. </p><p> </p><p>Which was pointless, really. Stupid. </p><p> </p><p>You were single. </p><p> </p><p>Your last serious relationship (barring the one with your now-hospitalized ex-girlfriend) had been over seven months ago with an eccentric guy named Lukas. He was kind, well-meaning… a bit of a dork at his very core, but you always found that more endearing than anything else. You’d dated him for four and a half months before deciding to break it off; because as much as you cared for him and enjoyed being around him, you didn’t love him, and you knew by then that you never would. </p><p> </p><p>You thought about him, from time to time—even <em>missed</em> him now and again.</p><p> </p><p>And yet, the strangest thing about the shameful feeling you’d get whenever your roommate so much as brushed a friendly kiss up against your cheek—it had absolutely nothing to do with Lukas. </p><p> </p><p>You didn’t know how you knew that, but you did. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever.</p><p> </p><p>This guy was not Lukas. </p><p> </p><p>His name was Des—short for Desmond, you learned over your fourth sugary-sweet cocktail of the night. He was charming and slightly foul-mouthed, but conscientious and passably polite where it mattered. He didn’t grope your ass or stare at your tits, nor did he make any lewd commentary about your body in any capacity. </p><p> </p><p>He also smelled… really good, like Old Spice and spearmint gum and the barest hint of cigarette smoke. </p><p> </p><p>That was more than enough for you. </p><p> </p><p>(Whatever, alright? Decent guys were in short supply these days.)</p><p> </p><p>You smiled and let him buy you another drink, even after you’d insisted that he really, <em>really</em> didn’t have to. And when an obnoxious pop song with a beat that was far more catchy than you’d have liked to admit came over the speakers, you let him coax you out to the dance floor with minimal resistance. </p><p> </p><p>It was… fun. You liked the way his hands rested on either of your hips—gentle, almost careful; holding you like he understood he didn’t have a right to your body, like he was more than content that you allowed him this to even think of demanding any more.</p><p> </p><p>Despite the twinges of guilt flaring in your gut, you let yourself get a little more comfortable… dancing closer and closer to him amidst a packed crowd of writhing bodies, letting your breasts graze up against his chest. </p><p> </p><p>It was teasing—<em>provocative</em>, even. A test, of sorts—one that Des passed with flying colors. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t do a thing to rush you, just kept dancing across from you with his hands on your hips and his darkened gaze on yours—seeming fully content to let you set the pace for the moment. And God, but the way he was looking at you… patient but eager, like he wanted nothing more than to crush your body against his own and grind himself into you like an animal—and yet, still, he held himself back. </p><p> </p><p>You couldn’t help but find that attractive as hell. </p><p> </p><p>Looping your arms around his neck, you let your body to press flush against his as you swayed to the beat of the song, not shying away from the slight stiffness you could feel growing against your hip. </p><p> </p><p>That guilty, nauseous feeling in your gut pulled tighter. </p><p> </p><p>You ignored it, and, when he leaned a little closer to shout over the deafening music, “Would it be alright if I kissed you?”... well. </p><p> </p><p>You wasted absolutely no time in lunging up on the tips of your toes to capture his lips in a messy open-mouthed kiss, the strobe lights of the club fading into obscurity around you. His lips were warm and gentle against yours—tentative, at first, until you pressed a little harder and traced the seam of his lips with your tongue… and, yeah; that did the trick. </p><p> </p><p>A moment later, his lips parted to let out a quiet groan directly into your mouth as he began to reciprocate in earnest, setting every nerve ending on your body alight with electrifying <em>want</em>. </p><p> </p><p>And that’s when it happened. </p><p> </p><p>Seemingly out of nowhere, a twisted sort of clarity hit you square in the chest—slowly, and then all at once. </p><p> </p><p>The next bits were something of a blur. </p><p> </p><p>You tore yourself away from Des, turned to forcibly elbow your way through a floor of grinding bodies. You thought you heard him call out your name, and more than a couple people on the dancefloor turned to glare at you as you rudely brushed past them without care—but, whatever. </p><p> </p><p>You texted… someone, telling them you were headed back to the apartment, so they shouldn’t bother waiting up. The group chat, maybe? </p><p> </p><p>And now… Now. </p><p> </p><p>Before you can blink, the past crashes into the present, and you find yourself back outside in the pitch-black night. </p><p> </p><p>It’s dark… chilly. A brisk wind catches you the moment you stumble out onto the sidewalk, assaulting every inch of your exposed skin like scores of needles piercing your flesh. You whimper, shudder, and hug your arms around your body—trying to warm yourself back up like a scared little kid who forgot their jacket. </p><p> </p><p>For the first time that night, you regret the tiny black babydoll dress you’d chosen to wear for the evening—and that’s not even to <em>mention</em> the four-inch heels. </p><p> </p><p>It’s miserable, to be sure, but you can hardly focus on it for very long. </p><p> </p><p>No, you have to go somewhere. You feel sick, and cold, and wrong in a way you’re loath to even begin explaining to anyone else. </p><p> </p><p>And your head… you’re positively aching for something—some<em>one</em> to make this better.</p><p> </p><p>You need… Wanda. </p><p> </p><p>Yes, Wanda is the person you’re looking for. She can make all of this better. </p><p> </p><p>You don’t know why, but you’re sure of it. You just need to find her. Hopefully she’s spending the night in her apartment on that super cozy sofa of hers, drinking hot chocolate and binge-watching something on Netflix like the two of you did a couple weeks back. </p><p> </p><p>A fond grin curves your lips at the recollection as you stumble off down the sidewalk, headed for the nearest subway station. </p><p> </p><p>Another wintry gust of wind hits you square in the chest, and you pinch your forearm <em>hard</em>, silently willing yourself to focus. </p><p> </p><p>The station should be less than a block down, if you’re remembering correctly. </p><p> </p><p>At the next street corner, you manage to brandish your pepper spray in one hand while you rummage around in your purse for your MetroCard with the other. </p><p> </p><p>It’s cold as hell, and you’re probably a little too drunk to be walking through the City streets alone right now, but you don’t much care. </p><p> </p><p>All you gotta do is find Wanda. That’s all. </p><p> </p><p>She’ll make everything better again. </p><p> </p><p>— —</p><p> </p><p>Where everything else is confusing, there’s one part that seems to make sense—Wanda. </p><p> </p><p>You nearly pick a fight with the card reader at the subway entrance when it makes you swipe your card three times to let you through, and even the stairs leading down to the lower tracks are more of a challenge than they probably should be… and yet, somehow, the rest of it is blessedly simple. A no-brainer, really.  </p><p> </p><p>You know which train you need to take… the blue one that arrives in four minutes. You know you need to stay on it for five stops before getting off. </p><p> </p><p>Once you’re up at ground level, you’ll have a short walk ahead of you—one that you know like the back of your hand despite only ever having been to Wanda’s a couple of times. </p><p> </p><p>You’ll enter Wanda’s apartment building, take the elevator right up to floor four, and boom! Home free. </p><p> </p><p>You do exactly that.</p><p> </p><p>It takes a short time (thankfully) and there’s not an ounce of uncertainty within you all the while, like you’ve done this 100 times before.  </p><p> </p><p>In seemingly no time at all, you’re there—standing on Wanda’s doorstep, knocking a couple times just beneath the burnished bronze ‘4A’ nailed into her door. </p><p> </p><p>	Your head feels all light and dizzy; you’re still shuddering from the time you spent out in the cold; but—</p><p> </p><p>	“One sec!” Wanda’s muffled voice comes from inside, the mere sound of it washing over you like a soothing balm—promising relief. </p><p> </p><p>	You’re safe now. </p><p> </p><p>You made it.  </p><p> </p><p>— —</p><p> </p><p>The moment the door swings open to reveal a bleary-eyed Wanda Maximoff dressed in tiny grey pajama shorts, an oversized Star Trek T-shirt, and nothing else, it’s like everything falls back into place. </p><p> </p><p>It’s like… like you can <em>breathe</em> again.</p><p> </p><p>You’re still drunk, and shivering, and more than a bit confused; but now that Wanda’s awake and here and smirking like she knows exactly what’s happening even if you don’t, you feel… better, somehow. Not nearly so lost as you were before. </p><p> </p><p>“Y/N,” Wanda greets, stepping aside and offering out a hand to help you inside. You’re quick to take it. “I was not expecting you,” she drawls, though everything about her demeanor is saying the opposite as she shuts and locks the door behind you. </p><p> </p><p>You pay it little mind. “Yeah, I... ” you trail off, turning to face her even as an embarrassed flush warms your cheeks. All of a sudden, you can’t help but feel rather ridiculous for knocking on her door and barging in so late—especially without calling first. “I’m so sorry, I...  I don’t know why I’m here.”</p><p> </p><p>Wanda just tilts her head, appraising you curiously even as the ghost of a knowing smile curves her lips. “Are you sure about that?”</p><p> </p><p>The heat in your cheeks seems to intensify tenfold at that. “I… I need to tell you something,” you hear yourself say, and the moment it’s registered, you realize that it’s true. </p><p> </p><p>You feel… guilty, all of a sudden. Nauseous, too. <em>Scared</em>. </p><p> </p><p>You danced with that guy—Des. You flirted with him. You let him touch you… You <em>kissed</em> him. Why would you do that?</p><p> </p><p>In the present moment, Wanda nods, like that makes perfect sense. Like <em>all of this</em> makes perfect sense. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” she acquiesces lightly, flares of crimson flitting through her measured gaze. “Is it something I’ll have to punish you for?”</p><p> </p><p><em>‘Punish’ me? What</em>—?</p><p> </p><p>You feel Wanda’s presence in your head… inconspicuous tendrils sifting through your thoughts, worming their way through your scattered memories. </p><p> </p><p>No point in lying. </p><p> </p><p>“Y-Yes,” you hear yourself say. Much like earlier, it isn’t until the moment you’ve confirmed it aloud that you know it to be true. You danced with someone else. You flirted with him. You let him touch you… <em>kiss</em> you. “I… I’m so sorry, Wanda; I-I don’t know what I was thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>You see the moment Wanda finds it—your memories of the nightclub. Meeting Des at the bar. Flirting with him… <em>Kissing</em> him. </p><p> </p><p>The look on her pretty features goes from bemused to disbelieving to absolutely murderous in zero seconds flat, and the realization hits like a freight train that you’re <em>really</em> in for it now. </p><p> </p><p>	<em>Fuck</em>. </p><p> </p><p>	“Go to the bedroom,” she snarls, her typically blue-green eyes burning with scarlet light. “Then take off that slutty dress. I want you on the bed, face down, naked. Do you understand?”</p><p> </p><p>Your head is spinning; confusion rears its ugly head in your gut even as every ounce of your being screams at you to just <em>obey</em>—‘cause if you can just do that, the rest of it will start to make sense. (Maybe.) “O-Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>— — </p><p> </p><p>You don’t know how you know the way to Wanda’s bedroom, but you do. </p><p> </p><p>You slip inside a room shrouded in darkness, and no matter how it strains your eyes to look around, you don’t dare turn on the light. </p><p> </p><p>It’s a modestly-sized bedroom with hardwood flooring, fairy lights along one wall, and an adjoining bathroom just opposite the entrance. There’s a tall, wooden dresser pressed up against the wall directly across from a large, king-sized bed. That’s pretty much all the detail you can manage to make out in the darkness.</p><p> </p><p>Well, either way, you suppose it isn’t really your business. </p><p> </p><p>Wanda gave you specific instructions, and you intend to follow them. </p><p> </p><p>Not for the first time tonight, you’re quite happy about the babydoll dress you’re wearing—particularly for how easy it is to pull it up over your head and off, leaving you in panties and a strapless bra in a matter of moments. </p><p> </p><p>You fold the dress neatly in your hands, then leave it atop the dresser. Your panties and bra come next. In seconds, you’ve formed a small, tidy pile. </p><p> </p><p>As you step out of your heels and approach the neatly-made bed, you’re struck with the strangest sense of déjà vu… like you’ve done this before.</p><p> </p><p>It lingers in the forefront of your mind as you crawl up onto the bed, biting back a groan at how easily the plush mattress gives way under your hands and knees. </p><p> </p><p>God, you’d kill to have a nice nap in this absolute cloud of a bed.</p><p> </p><p>You shake the thought off, simultaneously willing the haze of intoxication fogging up your brain to abate.</p><p> </p><p>You’re not here to nap. </p><p> </p><p>You settle face-down onto the bed, just like Wanda said. You’re careful not to rest your face on the pillows, though, since you have the distinct feeling that’s not something Wanda would want you doing without permission.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, you fold your arms and rest your head atop your forearm, staring straight down into nothing. You scrunch up your features and let out a quiet huff as the black duvet tickles the tip of your nose. </p><p> </p><p>It smells like her—all of it does. Cinnamon, vanilla, and something indefinable; something that belongs to Wanda, and Wanda alone. </p><p> </p><p>You feel your body stiffen as a familiar set of footsteps draw near, approaching the room where you lie—naked and vulnerable atop Wanda’s bed.</p><p> </p><p>The patter of Wanda’s gait becomes almost soundless as she enters, circling around the bed over towards the nightstand. You don’t dare to turn your head and watch as she pulls out one of the drawers, rummaging through it until she finds… well, whatever it is she’s looking for, you suppose. </p><p> </p><p>A moment later, there’s the telltale <em>chk!</em> of a match being struck, and a <em>hiss</em> as the phosphorous tip lights itself aflame. </p><p> </p><p>It’s quiet for a minute... then two. The only sounds you can hear are your breathing and the strike of a match every time Wanda lights another. </p><p> </p><p>Gradually, gentle flares of light grow in your periphery, bathing the room in a dim, yellow-y glow. She’s lighting candles—a lot of them. </p><p> </p><p>You’ve always loved candles. </p><p> </p><p>A couple minutes later, she’s finished, and she returns to tuck the matchbox safely back in the drawer. </p><p> </p><p>You lose track of her as she retreats once more, and your mounting curiosity is more than piqued when you hear her rummaging through the dresser near the foot of the bed; still, you don’t dare turn and look. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, you wait, fetid nausea churning low in your gut, pinpricks of apprehension dancing across every inch of exposed skin. Your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage as she takes something out from the dresser drawer, then shuts it with an audible <em>thud!</em></p><p> </p><p>You swallow the lump in your throat and urge yourself to focus on your breathing. </p><p> </p><p>In, out. </p><p> </p><p>In, out. </p><p> </p><p>In… out.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m disappointed in you, Y/N,” Wanda’s voice comes from somewhere behind you, genuine hurt coloring her hushed tone. </p><p> </p><p>You have to fight the urge to shudder as a chill runs down your spine. “I… I’m sorry, Wanda,” you say meekly, pathetically, cheeks hot with shame. </p><p> </p><p>And the worst part? You’re not lying. </p><p> </p><p>You listen carefully for the sounds of her bare feet padding across the floor as she circles the bed once more, crouching down right beside you in the very corner of your periphery. </p><p> </p><p>“Look at me,” she orders, gentle yet firm. </p><p> </p><p>You do. </p><p> </p><p>The moment you meet her gaze, you can’t help the errant thought entering your mind that she looks so <em>pretty</em> like this—face bare of makeup; long brown hair piled into a messy bun atop her head; dainty features cast into darkened shadows by the low, yellow light of burning candles clustered together atop the nightstand. </p><p> </p><p>The muted light seems to soften her anger, her pain… allowing her to really look her age for the very first time since you’ve known her. </p><p> </p><p>“You think too loudly, Y/N.” Wanda’s words are dry, almost teasing as they jolt you back into reality. “Focus on me, please.”</p><p> </p><p>	You do. </p><p> </p><p>	“You belong to me,” she asserts after a beat of silence, an uncharacteristically intent and almost <em>solemn</em> look splayed across her dimly-lit features. “I thought you understood that.”</p><p> </p><p>The words confuse you even as they seem to resonate poignantly with some fundamental part of you… a part of you that categorically refuses to be ignored. </p><p> </p><p>“Wanda…” you trail off, bewilderment and contrition warring violently within your chest until it aches to draw breath. “I’m confused, Wanda,” you whimper out finally, overwhelmed tears burning in your eyes. “I-I-I don’t understand what’s happening—” </p><p> </p><p>Wanda cuts you off with a derisive snort. “Yes, <em>clearly</em>,” she agrees, her tone ripe with sardonic ire. “You’ve forgotten yourself. You’ve forgotten who <em>owns</em> you.”</p><p> </p><p>You worry your lower lip between your teeth, desperately trying to make sense of it all. “Is that why…” You search Wanda’s eyes intently. “... I-I felt sick, an-and… <em>guilty</em> about dancing with Des.”</p><p> </p><p>Something like anger flares in her gaze, hot and bitter, and you have to resist the urge to shrivel beneath it. “That boy had <em>no right</em> to touch what’s rightfully mine.”</p><p> </p><p>“B-But then… why didn’t I remember?” you ask, utterly forlorn. “I-I felt it last weekend, too, but I… I didn’t—” </p><p> </p><p>	“Last weekend?” Wanda repeats, features hardening.</p><p> </p><p>	<em>Oh, shit</em>. You feel your cheeks get hot again. “I… I shouldn’t have brought it up, Wan’, I’m sorry—”</p><p> </p><p>	“What happened last weekend?” she interjects, her tone cold and hard like a double-edged blade. “You can tell me yourself, or I can start looking.”</p><p> </p><p>	You shiver. “I… I went on a-a… a date with a girl that I met online,” you admit, tears welling in your eyes even as Wanda’s jaw visibly tightens. “I-It was just the one time! A-And nothing happened; we didn’t even k-kiss! I just… I didn’t… I didn’t know—”</p><p> </p><p>	“Yes. You’re right; you didn’t know.” Wanda stands abruptly, then, and it’s at that moment that you see the folded belt in her hands—thick, worn leather with a sterling silver buckle. </p><p> </p><p>An icy sense of dread blossoms in your chest, chilling you from the inside out. </p><p> </p><p><em>Is she going to</em>—? </p><p> </p><p>“I was indulgent before… I let you get away with far too much. I will not make the same mistake again.”</p><p> </p><p>	With that, she turns to circle back around the bed, the belt buckle audibly jangling in her hands with every step. </p><p> </p><p>	“I have to punish you, принцеса,” she continues, her voice scarcely more than a whisper as she comes to stand near the foot of the bed—and somehow, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there’s no convincing her otherwise. </p><p> </p><p>	She’s going to punish you, and it’s going to hurt. <em>Bad</em>. </p><p> </p><p>	All at once, panic seizes you. You squirm, writhing in an effort to get up and off the bed—</p><p> </p><p>	Only to be stopped by tendrils of lurid crimson curling around either wrist, forcing them together just over your head like magic—glowing crimson cuffs holding both arms fast to the headboard. On a whim, you test your legs—tensing and pulling, only to be met with iron-clad resistance encircling either ankle in a tight, unrelenting grip. </p><p> </p><p>	<em>Well, fuck</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“W-Wanda,” you plead, hardly paying any mind to the way your voice trembles. “Please, I—I don’t want—”</p><p> </p><p>“I do not enjoy punishing you, мила,” she laments, almost sounding genuinely apologetic. It tugs at your heartstrings in a curious way—something you really don’t have time to examine right now. “But you did something bad. And when you do bad things, there are consequences. You understand that, don’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>A tear trickles down your cheek, warm and wet as you steel yourself for the first hit. “Y-Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Good girl,” Wanda lauds, and you can’t help the surge of warmth that washes over you at the simple praise—the pride that blooms in your chest at knowing you’ve finally done something right. “Now—try and relax, принцеса, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s all the warning you get before the first blow comes down upon your bare arse with a resounding <em><b>Crack!</b></em></p><p> </p><p>White-hot pain flares across your bottom, racing up your spine like wildfire and tearing a strangled whimper from your throat. </p><p> </p><p><em>Jesus fucking <span class="u">Christ</span>, that hurt</em>—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em>Holy <span class="u">fuck</span></em>. </p><p> </p><p>The impact of the leather against your naked cheeks leaves strips of fire burning in its wake, expelling all the air from your lungs in a choked-out rush. </p><p> </p><p>“P-Please, no, Wan’,” you beg breathlessly, struggling in vain even as coils of vibrant scarlet hold you fast, “it hurts, <em>please</em>—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“This is for your own good, baby,” Wanda coos, sounding for all the world as though she truly believes every word of it. </p><p> </p><p><em><b>Crack!</b></em> This one lands directly across your sit spot, ripping a shriek from your lips as molten agony rocks you to your core. </p><p> </p><p>“Wan’—<em>Fuck</em>, please, no—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“G—God, fuck, pleasestop, <em>please</em>—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“P—<em>Please</em>, hurtssobad, I’m—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“<em>FUCK</em> !”</p><p> </p><p>Tears stream down your cheeks, wetting the black duvet beneath your face. You’re absolutely beside yourself with torment, your bare ass aflame with a pain unlike any you’ve ever known. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>… And the hits just keep coming—raining down stripes of blistering heat across your sore, bruised buttocks; pummeling your throbbing, exposed rear until it feels as though the entire area has just become one puffy, pulsating bruise. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>All the fight has completely gone out of you; now, your body completely slack—devoid of any resistance even as every hit seems to sear itself into your impossibly tender bottom like a third-degree burn… The pain is absolutely incredible, unlike any else you’ve ever known.</p><p> </p><p>You’ll do anything—and you really do mean <em>anything</em>—to make it stop. </p><p> </p><p>“P-P-Please, stop it, Wanda, <em>PLEASE</em>—”</p><p> </p><p><em><b>Crack!</b></em> Another hit directly across your burning sit spot rips a watery sob from your throat, followed by—  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s all you can do to keep yourself from hyperventilating until you pass out. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Crack!</b>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>	Agony blackens the edge of your vision, fresh tears streaking down your cheeks as you await another strike… </p><p> </p><p>	But it doesn’t come. </p><p> </p><p>	<em>Wh</em>—?</p><p> </p><p>	“Have you learned your lesson, мила?” Wanda asks, and this time, her voice comes from closer… like she’s right beside you. </p><p> </p><p>	You don’t have it in you to be startled when a feather-light kiss lands itself between your shoulder blades, nor when one hand begins stroking up and down your heaving torso in soothing motions. </p><p> </p><p>	“Y-Yes! I—please, <em>God</em>, yes,” you babble, overwhelmed by the sensation of unadulterated pain branding every inch of your battered arse. “I promise I’ll never, ever, <em>ever</em> do it again, Wan’—Won’t ever be with anyone else—jus-just <em>please</em> stop hurting me—I’ll be so good, <em>please</em>—”</p><p> </p><p>“Shh,” Wanda shushes you tenderly. You feel yourself twitch as the mattress suddenly dips beside you. “It’s okay, любима,” she soothes, coming to rest beside you. “Just breathe, okay? Breathe.”</p><p> </p><p><em>‘Breathe’</em>...</p><p> </p><p>Your pulse thunders in your ears; your ass is on fire with an anguish far beyond your years; and yet, there’s something undoubtedly soothing about her words as they wash over you in gentle waves… something that tells you you’re <em>safe</em>.  </p><p> </p><p>Were you a little more lucid, you might’ve found that quite the nonsensical paradox—this feeling of safety and security with the woman who’d just beaten your arse raw without mercy no matter how you wailed and sobbed and begged for her to stop. </p><p> </p><p>But as it is, you’re not. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, you’re just broken and teary-eyed and in <em>pain</em>, and Wanda’s tenderness is a most welcome respite to alleviate that excruciating ache. </p><p> </p><p>You take a deep, shuddering breath, even if it burns your lungs something awful, and force yourself to let it out slowly. </p><p> </p><p>In, out. </p><p> </p><p>In, out.</p><p> </p><p>In… out.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s it, мила,” Wanda praises gently, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “You’re doing so well… Just like that.” Her fingers come to rest beneath your chin, urging you to turn and face her…</p><p> </p><p>And you do, far too exhausted to even think of doing anything other than what she tells you to. Your lungs burn; your nose runs; and the pain in your bottom hasn’t abated any—if anything, it’s intensified.</p><p> </p><p>You’re more than happy to be given something else to focus on.  </p><p> </p><p>When you look at her, her blue-green eyes are wet—glossy with tears.</p><p> </p><p>“Wanda?” you manage weakly, feeling your brow crease with worry. “You ‘kay?”</p><p> </p><p>Wanda sniffles, huffs out a watery-sounding laugh. “Yes, Y/N, I’m alright,” she whispers, then leans forth to plant a gentle kiss upon the tip of your nose. “I’m just so very, very proud of you.”</p><p> </p><p>Despite yourself, you feel a pleased flush spread throughout your body at that. “Really?” you mumble, exhaustion drooping your eyelids until it’s a challenge just to keep them open. </p><p> </p><p>Wanda nods, a tear sliding out of her eye that you yearn to reach forth and catch with your thumb—but alas, you’re far too weak. “Really.” </p><p> </p><p>You hum, burrowing your face further into the duvet beneath your cheek—even if it is still damp with your tears. “‘M sorry I was bad, Wan’,” you murmur, feeling darkness near on every side. “Didn’t mean’ta make you upset.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t like punishing you, принцеса,” she says once more, and this time, you have no reason to doubt that she means it. Honestly, you don’t know how you ever could. “It hurts me just as much as it hurts you.”</p><p> </p><p>You hum again. Your eyelids feel too heavy to open. “‘M sorry,” you say. “Gonna do better… make you proud… I <em>promise</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Wanda chuckles. The sound of it makes your chest feel loose and warm and <em>happy</em>. “You already do, darling girl,” she murmurs. You don’t know if it’s because she’s whispering, or you’re fading into sleep, but you can barely hear her when she repeats it once more: “You already do.”</p><p> </p><p>Sleep descends upon you, then, and you succumb to it willingly, feeling safer and more at peace than you have in a very long time. </p><p> </p><p>— —</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>bitches love candles</p><p>(i'm bitches)</p><p>—</p><p>[cross-posting this on my <a href="https://novoaa1writes.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>]</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>